


Authenticity's Sake

by A_Virtuous_Pyromaniac



Category: Team Fortress 2, Team Fortress Classic
Genre: 1930s, Breast Play, Burns, F/M, Fingering, PIV Sex, Penetrative Sex, Porn With Plot, Sex in a Car, Young Team Fortress Classic, administrator backstory sort of, massively long introduction before the porn starts, tfc smut, way too many historical details
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 05:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17177159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Virtuous_Pyromaniac/pseuds/A_Virtuous_Pyromaniac
Summary: The year in 1938. Bea and Cheavy sneak out of a hotel and have sex in a VW Beetle. That's about it.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [This-Is-Not-Overwatch-Fanfic (tiny_freakin_head)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiny_freakin_head/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All buildup and plot. Sexy times happen in Chapter Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New fic! A belated Christmas gift for M of tiny-freakin-head. 
> 
> Based on a discord conversation we had about Cheavy (who we've named Marcus) and Bea fucking in a VW Beetle. Honestly, I don't remember the context in which it came up, but I remember that I thought the idea was funny enough to turn it into a fic. 
> 
> This story ended up being three times longer than I originally planned, so I divided it into two chapters. Skip to chapter two if you're just here for the smut.

13 January, 1938. 9:15 PM

The last of the day’s business meetings was formal and frumpy, as only meetings in a stuffy hotel conference room could be. Bea and Helen were the only women in the room, and Bea and Marcus were the only ones under fifty. All the other attendees seemed to be near-identical old men. They didn’t look exactly alike, of course, but their appearances all seemed to express the same idea. All appeared over-salaried and over-fed, with gray hair and frowns and special interests galore. They came with agendas and contracts and all of it had to do with vast sums of theoretical money. No cash, just stocks and bonds and diamond mines in India. Men like these never dealt with something so mundane as a paycheck. 

Bea didn’t want to be at this meeting. Hell, she barely understood why Helen had insisted that she and Marcus come. Helen had said that it was good to have mercenaries’ faces attached to the contracts. But secretly, Bea figured that she had to come because Helen wanted the female company. As for Marcus, his height and muscles and crooked nose probably served to intimidate the businessmen into giving Helen better deals. 

Well, whatever the reason, Bea was only expected to be present. Thank god no one expected her to pay attention or take notes, because her mind had started wandering within the first five minutes. First, she’d stared at the taxidermy deer head mounted on the wall, and thought about the taxidermist fixing the hollow balaclava of skin to the stuffed frame. Then she’d thought about the men’s’ mistresses; men so rich and dull were certain to have them, weren’t they? Maybe the girls got pearls for their trouble – something that could be sold for something useful when times demanded it. Or perhaps they were set up in their own apartments. Sleek, modern units with chiffon bedspreads and electric refrigerators in pastel colors. Expensive things that would take a lot of work to acquire. Well, only a lot of work if the work in question was something other than spreading one’s legs and moaning. 

Bea blinked and noticed that everyone in the conference room had started moving. There was much stretching and cracking of knees. The meeting was finally over, thank whatever divine powers that be. Bea roller her shoulders and tried to catch Marcus’s eye. All she wanted was a shared glimpse of sympathy, something that indicated that he had been as miserable as she. But Marcus was straight-backed and solemn, just like Helen wanted. No doubt he’d spent the meeting glaring at each of the men in turn, just to show that Helen meant business. 

Bea never understood how he managed to keep up the bodyguard act for so long. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn he was man of discipline and stodgy morals. The men probably thought that, too. Wouldn’t they be surprised if they caught of glimpse of Marcus during his off hours, in the semi-private sphere that he shared with Bea? Oh, their faces would turn with horror. Bea wanted to giggle at the thought, but Helen would notice and ask what was funny. 

So she bit her lip, and filed out of the room with all the others. She was careful to stay near Helen, but two steps behind. Helen got annoyed if Bea walked ahead of her. You walk like a man! she would say. Or, alternatively, stop strutting; you’re not the Queen of Sheba. It made Bea want to shove her employer down the hotel’s opulent front steps, stomp on her face a few times, and light her on fire. She’d never do such a thing, of course. Two steps behind was the mercenary equivalent of spreading her legs and moaning. Like a mistress, she knew where the money came from. 

Once the group had reached the lobby, the men dispersed, and a slight man peeled himself from one of the brocade chairs and came skittering towards Helen. He had a fresh copy of The Atlantic rolled under his arm, Bea noticed. This hotel had to have a magazine-and-cigarette shop somewhere.

Helen had brought Mr. Pauling to take shorthand, but the men had balked at the idea of a verbatim record of proceedings. It was too much evidence. 

“Good evening, ma’am.” Mr. Pauling stood before Helen and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Did all go well?”

While Helen’s attention was elsewhere, Bea drew closer to Marcus. She hoped he’s bent down, and she could whisper in ear. She’d suggest drinks and quick fuck in the men’s room. Hell, she’d even be happy driving into town. They could torch a few abandoned buildings or sit in the back of a seedy burlesque with worn-out girls and watered-down drinks. They needed to something, anything to release her pent-up energy. 

“Terribly disappointing,” said Helen. Marcus exhaled; Bea suspected he was trying not to snort. Helen could have been handed the entire continent of Australia in a velvet-lined box and she still would have called it disappointing. 

“I want these typed and filed by morning.” Helen thrust her longhand notebook into Mr. Pauling’s hands. While Mr. Pauling fumbled, Bea and reached the back of her hand against Marcus’s. He glimpsed down at her, making proper eye contact for the first time that night. Save me, Bea mouthed, and she could have sworn she got the subtlest smile in return. Marcus brushed Bea’s hand in return, maybe lingering a little longer than necessary. If nothing else, Bea must have known that Bea was on the verge of going crazy and exploding. 

“Of course, ma’am,” said Mr. Pauling. 

Helen did not so much as thank him, just looked over her shoulder. “Beatrice, we’re going upstairs.” This was the cue that Helen was going to retire early and that the men were dismissed. Pauling scuttled off like a nervous insect, and Marcus marched off with a simple, “Good night, ma’am.” Bea watched him go. Lucky man, off to get a drink or read the evening paper, while she had to help Helen get ready for bed. 

The elevator had brass grilles and a teenage operator who looked absurd in his gold-braid cap. 

“Tenth floor.” Helen sniffed at the boy and never tipped. Tips just encouraged the poor to stay poor, or so she said to Bea. 

The hotel room on the tenth floor was pale blue and sleek. There was a pseudo-Egyptian vase on the dresser, and pseudo-Oriental screen the corner, pale green and patterned with cranes. All the furniture seemed to be made of smooth curves of pale wood, from the vanity to the desk to the two twin beds. 

One might have assumed that Helen took double rooms to save money – each room cost twelve dollars a night! – but Bea suspected it was at least partially to keep her separated from Marcus. Put Bea in the same room as Helen and Marcus in the same room as Mr. Pauling, and there was no way for the mercenaries to cause the improper sort of ruckus. Helen had no patience for noise complaints, torn sheets, or fires caused by dropped matches. Such things were inconveniences or worse, disappointments. Sure, this thing between Bea and Marcus had never been formally acknowledged. Helen had never said a word about it, but Bea was still certain she knew. There were burns and bruises and if Helen’s henchmen went through the mercenaries’ possessions, they’d find notes and misplaced pairs of underwear. 

No sooner had the door clicked close than Helen had removed her purple suit jacket and started unbuttoning the lavender shirtwaist beneath it. “It’s in my cosmetics case.”

Bea nodded. The case was in its normal place inside Helen’s dress-suit case. It was a dark, bulky thing, thoroughly Victorian and long out of fashion. Helen was like that sometimes. She’d fixate on certain old things and insist the long-ago past had been better. She could live until 1970 and she’d probably still be using the same ancient case. 

So Bea sifted through ornate silver compacts and perfume atomizers until she found the little bottle that glowed a soft golden color. It was Australium dissolved in aqua regia, very expensive and very important for Helen’s health; Bea wasn’t allowed to know the details. 

Helen had removed her narrow suit-skirt by now, and was busy unclipping her garters from her shape-wear. Despite her age, she wore an un-boned corselet marketed towards much younger women. Well, if nothing else, Helen was slim enough for it, all ribs and shoulder blades draped in tissue-paper skin. 

But more important than Helen’s boniness was the fact that this corselet was backless. It was meant to be worn beneath racy, bias-cut dresses with plunging backlines. Helen never wore those sorts of dresses, but she needed space for the machine mounted in the flesh between her shoulder blades. 

The machine was vaguely triangle-shaped, with a sleek chrome coating that Fred thought gave it a modern gleam. A sliver of glass fuel tube was visible on the side of the thing, and Bea could see that the yellow glow had almost disappeared. 

“What’re you waiting for?” Helen had settled before the vanity. Her eyes were all over Bea, irritated and expectant. 

“I’m on it.” Bea switched the machine off, drained the spent fuel into a ceramic coffee mug, and began to funnel the fresh stuff into the nozzle. She had to work quickly; Helen would die if the machine was off for around ninety seconds. If the machine had to shock her back to life, Helen would be mercilessly cranky and take it out on Bea with pinches and slaps. Her blows were barely hard enough to leave a mark, but Bea hated having to stand there and take them. A slap from anyone else would be met with punching, biting and possible strangulation, but with Helen, Bea had to pretend to be repentant. Like a good mistress who knew where the money was. 

Thankfully, there would be no un-dead slapping tonight. Nothing was stuck or clogged, and Bea got the fuel changed with time to spare. “Done, ma’am.”

Helen nodded, and Bea took the coffee cup into the bathroom. The aqua regia was acidic, so she filled the sink with water, poured the fuel in, waited for it to mix, and pulled the plug. She stayed to watch everything drain away; hoping against hope that Helen would be asleep when she emerged. If Helen was gone, she could slip out without excuses or question and stay away as long as she liked. 

But Helen was no such thing, of course. She’d just changed into her long white nightgown and settled into bed with a book and a cigarette. Her hair had never been bobbed, and the long mostly-black mass fanned across the pillows. There was too much contrast between her hair and the white sheets, along with Helen’s white skin. It made her look older, somehow. Thoroughly witchlike, though that last thought might have stemmed from Bea’s half-repressed desire to rough Helen up and set her on fire. 

“Not going to bed?” Helen didn’t even look up from her book. Bea noticed the title just then. How to Win Friends and Influence People, lessons that Helen was certain to refuse to take to heart. 

“Too early for me,” Bea managed. “It’s not even ten.”

Helen sighed and shook her head. “When I was your age, young ladies got their beauty sleep.”

Bea wanted to say that young ladies during Helen’s youth had also worn whalebone corsets and lead-based fairness creams, and were those things worth emulating? But she bit the inside of her cheek. “That’s modern times, ma’am. No reason to sleep at night when you’ve got electric lights.”

Helen sighed, and if resolved to this particular foible of youth. “Just be sufficiently rested for tomorrow.” She looked up and frowned at Bea’s restlessness. “I brought some other books. You may read them.” The Metamorphosis and The Island of Dr. Moreau sat on the bedside table. “Or will you tell me that young people only read magazines and pulps nowadays?”

A large part of Bea wanted to snap that plenty of magazines were more useful than The Metamorphosis. A good newsmagazine could tell her which new dictators and business tycoons might want to hire a mercenary someday. That was a hundred times better than the story of some self-pitying cockroach-man. 

Magazine. The word made Bea remember that copy of The Atlantic tucked under Mr. Pauling’s arm. 

“Magazines,” said Bea. “Yeah, that’s mostly what I read.” She inhaled and continued. Yes, this would be a simple lie. “You know how it is, ma’am. What with the pace of modern life, it’s hard to concentrate long enough to read a book. So, magazines it is. And you just got me thinking that I didn’t bring any. I might have to run down to the lobby and get one.”

Helen raised an eyebrow. “They sell them here?”

“They do. Mr. Pauling had a fresh one.”

And before Helen could get another word in, Bea slipped out into the hall. She heaved a sigh of relief once the door clicked behind her. If Helen had anything more to say, Bea could plausibly deny having heard.

Bea rang for the elevator. The brass grills clicked open. 

“Your boss didn’t tip me,” said the boy. 

“Yeah, she’s a real cunt,” said Bea. Her voice was a bit louder than it needed to be, but that one syllable had never felt better in her mouth. Nothing like cunt to crush an atmosphere of suffocating politeness. 

The boy blinked and went silent at her crassness, of course. 

“Oh, don’t act like you’ve never heard that word before,” said Bea. “You father probably says it to your mother while he fucks her.” 

This time, the boy laughed, as if he didn’t know how else to react. “Is this supposed to make me forget that your old lady didn’t tip?”

“Nope,” said Bea. But the boy really was a pathetic sort, so she pulled a five-dollar bill from her wallet. “She’s not going to tip you. Here, take that and call it all our tips for as long as we’re here.”

The boy’s eye widened at the bill, of course, but they had reached the ground floor. Bea pushed past him to make sure she wouldn’t have to listen to any more stupid questions. 

Upon exiting the elevator, Bea had a mind to immediately start searching for Marcus, but for the sake of authenticity, she asked a concierge where the magazine stand was. It turned out to be just off of the lobby, across the hall from the reading room. The place was small but well stocked, and Bea immediately grabbed a copy of The Economist and a deck of Luckies. Best to be well-stocked on cigarettes; Helen always refused to share. Bea paid with a quarter, took out her zippo and lit one of the cigarettes on the way out. The first drag was deep and smooth, filling her insides with heat. 

Business might be mind-numbing and Helen might be suffocating, but at least women were allowed to smoke in hotels these days. It hadn’t always been that way. Looking back, how had Bea survived the earlier part of the 20s, back when a smoking lady might be scolded by strangers or asked to leave? Well, she’d gotten by in the way she always had. Doing just enough to please the important people and to hell with the rest!

Bea was smiling at this last thought when she noticed the sound of typing coming from the reading room. Pinching the cigarette between her lips, she carefully turned the door handle so it would make no noise, and pushed the door open a crack. Sure enough, there was Mr. Pauling, pounding away on his portable typewriter. His hair looked strangely damp. Was he really breaking a sweat from typing? Bea frowned for a moment, then decided she didn’t care. Let Mr. Pauling sweat over whatever he wanted, as long as if kept him from noticing if Marcus disappeared. Bea shut the door as quietly as she had opened it. If Marcus wasn’t in the reading room with Mr. Pauling, he’d certainly be in the bar. Marcus wasn’t the type to turn in early or sober, especially after an unpleasant day. 

The hotel’s bar would have been dark even if it hadn’t been for the walnut paneling and red-shaded lamps. Still, Marcus was instantly noticeable. He’d taken off his suit jacket and the shoulders beneath the white shirtsleeves were a step wider and broader than anyone else’s. He was so tall that that he had to hunch over to rest his forearms on the bar. There was something heavy about the gesture, as if he was depending on the bar to prop him up. And he seemed to be staring almost straight ahead, with his brow furrowed and his jaw thrust forward. It was perfect pose for a man who wanted to drink with no interruptions beyond “What will it be, sir?” 

“Marcus.” Between her higher voice and blue suit, Bea felt like a bird beside him. Marcus looked so out of it that she was surprised when he immediately turned at her voice and held out one of his enormous paws. Bea put her cigarette in her left hand, put her right in Marcus’s, and maneuvered herself onto a barstool. She normally wasn’t one for pushed chairs and held doors, but she appreciated this. Bar footrails were not meant to work with high heels. 

As soon as she was settled on the stool, Bea spotted another of Marcus’s subtle semi-smiles. Rumor of a smile, she called it in her mind. Maybe Marcus wasn’t in as foul of a mood as she’d worried. He might just be tired. 

“Get a ward eight for the bird.” Marcus might have growled at the bartender, but his voice was softer when he turned to Bea. “She asleep?”

“God, don’t I wish?” Bea pulled her skirt straight; it was bunching unattractively around her lower stomach. “She’s up reading. Something about making friends, if you can believe it? I had to tell her I needed to buy a magazine.” 

The bartender set the ward eight down in the midst of Marcus’s empty shot-glasses. Bea could have sworn that his eyes lingered on her as she did so. Most likely, he had sensed that there was something slightly off about her face. Bea liked to think that she was fairly good at concealing her scars. A glass eye, plenty of makeup, and a fluff of curls pinned over the burned part of her scalp—all that covered up the most obvious parts. But the glass eye didn’t move and nerve damage had left Bea’s face slightly asymmetrical. It was just odd enough to make a curious person look twice. 

Bea tried to reassure herself. The bartender was likely an ordinary sod who only noticed things so he could tell stories to some vapid girlfriend. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching her. The bartender might be a moron, but even a moron might whisper things to a waitress, who would whisper them to a chambermaid, and suddenly, Helen would know. The walls didn’t need ears. The half-invisible background people were quite enough. 

“This place sucks,” Bea whispered, softly enough that the bartender couldn’t hear. She took a large gulp of her drink; the sooner she was buzzing, the better. “Wanna blow? My car’s nearly full. There’s gotta be something in town.”

Marcus’s face suddenly became fully animated as he raised both eyebrows. “Your car? In this weather?”

“What about the weather?” The words came out too loud.

Marcus scoffed, though not unkindly. “Haven’t looked out a window for a few hours, have you?”

“N-no. No.” Damn, did all that disappointment have to seep into her voice. 

“It’s been snowing since three,” said Marcus. “Not sure we could even find your car in the drifts, much less drive it.”

Bea sighed through her nose, then tossed back the rest of her drink in two swallows, ladylike behavior be damned. It was satisfying to set the empty glass down at least. “Well, fuck.” This, at least, she managed to whisper. Her mind started searching for possibilities again – surely they could find something entertaining? Outrageous fun could be had at hotels, of course. You could push somebody wearing evening clothes into the swimming pool, try to steal a concierge’s hat, or return to the room sneak gin and play drunken charades. Plenty of possibilities, though Bea had never done any of them with Helen nearby. 

Marcus must have guessed what Bea was thinking, because he growled for two more shots of Jameson and pushed them both towards her. “Here. Seems you need it.”

“Thanks, pet.” Bea tossed one back. It burned far less than she expected; hard liquor was so much better now that it was legal again. A bit of warm edge was starting to build under her skin. Booze-fueled energy with nowhere to go. It made the prospect of getting smashed in this dim bar seem duller than ever. 

“Is it really, truly, so bad that we can’t go out? I’ll let you drive if that makes you feel better.” Marcus often drove the team van when they were stationed at Coldfront.   
Marcus shrugged and tapped one finger on the rim of an empty shot-glass. “I’m pretty sure but we could check.” 

Bea quickly downed the rest of the Jameson and they headed for the front door. Marcus offered her his suit jacket and she accepted it less because she needed it than because the doorman would notice if she didn’t. 

It was snowing all right, so ferociously that Bea didn’t even consider stepping out from the beneath the hotel awning. This was the really miserable kind of snowstorm, too, with small, hard flakes and so much wind that swirls of loose powder blew across the lawn. The snow must have been wetter earlier in the day, though, because it had stuck to everything from windowpanes to the trunks of trees. The cars in the parking lot had been reduced to white lumps. Bea could only recognize her Volkswagen Beetle because of its shape. The round little dome of the chassis somehow made it seem more cheerful than the other, boxier cars. With the wheels all but buried in the snow, it looked almost like a lump of fairy candy or a scoop of ice cream.   
Despite the car’s appearance, Bea groaned. She’d specifically bought the Beetle because it was sturdy. Megalomaniacal chancellor aside, those Germans were excellent engineers. Only the Australians could do better. But even a German car couldn’t plow its way through bumper-deep snow without overheating or sliding off the road. 

“Right.” Marcus nodded at their surroundings, as if one glimpse had told him all he needed to know. “No way we’re driving in this.”

“Yeah.” The weather was hopeless, but Bea couldn’t help but stare longingly at that little dome of fairy candy. Cars did that to her. Reminded her of all the places she could go, at least when the weather was decent. She found herself thinking of her first-ever ride in a car, a boyfriend’s third-hand Model T. It had had no top, no suspension to speak of, and it started with a hand crank instead of a key. It was a disaster of a car, but they hadn’t cared. It got them away from their parents and the dusty streets of their little Nebraska town. The freedom had gone to their heads during those rides. It made them reckless. No wonder old Parson Brown had railed against cars as “vessels of sin” that “encouraged heavy petting.”

“I’m ready to go in if you are.” Marcus had to be freezing in just his shirtsleeves and vest. As he turned towards the door, Bea could see that the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. 

“No, wait.” She reached out and grabbed the strap on the back of his vest. “Let’s go out to my car. Not drive it anywhere, just get in. We can screw or something.”

That certainly made Marcus stop in his tracks. 

“Nobody new is going to arrive at night in the middle of a snowstorm,” said Bea. She pointed at the gilt-panel hotel doors. “Hell, even the doorman’s gone inside. And even if he steps out, there’s snow over the windows. 

Marcus snorted. “Fucking in your car?”

“We can do it. We’ll make it work.” Bea grabbed his wrist and tugged. She was a foot shorter and easily a hundred pounds lighter, but she managed to muster enough force to get him to take a step back. 

“You’re actually serious.” Marcus’s tone suggested he was almost pleased at this. 

“Damn right I am!” Bea dragged Marcus back a few more steps, out from underneath the shelter of the awning. Suddenly, she was up to her stocking-ed calves in snow and the wind was driving hard little flakes into her face. She looked up at Marcus, grabbed his hand even tighter, and then turned on her heels to make a dash for the car. Well, she tried to make a dash. The snow forced her to pick up her knees like a marching clarinetist and her dainty business shoes tried to slide out from under her. Bea imagined falling face-first and knocking out a few teeth. At least, he could be trusted to carry her back indoors. 

Fifty high-kneed steps later, they reached the Beetle. Bea fumbled through her pockets for the keys for thirty cold seconds before she managed to unlock it. Both lunged for the doors, then slammed them shut behind them. A chunk of snow fell off the driver’s-side window. 

For a second, Bea could just lean back in her seat and catch her breath, grateful to be out of the wind. At some point, her breathing turned to a low giggle, and she turned to look at Marcus. She needed a moment to make him out, because the only light came through the exposed window. It wasn’t much, just the sickly yellow glare of a nearby sodium street lamp. Not a flattering sort of light, but it reminded Bea of earlier years, she’d snuck out of the house and scurried down a road lined with similar lamps. A sodium light was meant to illuminate scraps of adventure, snatched whenever she could get them.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some proper action.

The little light revealed that Marcus’s sideburns were speckled with white, and he was yanking at his tie. The wind had probably driven snow under his collar. His movements were clumsy; those great ham hands were terrible at ties. 

“C’mere.” Bea slid across the seat, into Marcus’s lap. 

Marcus grunted, and put a hand over hers, as if to push her away. “I can…fucking melting, we’re going to be so wet, and the…Jesus, Bea. Turn the heat on already. Mess with the tie later.”  
Bea didn’t like being told to take her hands off Marcus, but he did have a point. Her shoes and stockings were already soaked and she could feel dampness seeping into her foundation garments. So she turned on the ignition, careful to leave the headlights off. The vents started blasting, but the air was as cold as outside. It would take a while for the system to warm up 

“Hang on, I’ve got a propane heater.” Bea tried to lean over the back seat, but her girdle seized her middle and the sleeves of Marcus’s jackets fell over her hand. 

“You need help?” Marcus was blowing in his fingers. 

“No, I’ve got it.” Bea managed to grab the heater with her fingertips and pull it into her lap. She flicked her zippo open, and a moment later, they had a merry blue flame and a gentle source of heat. Soon the car would smell of wet wool suits, but no matter. They’d be plenty warm. Bea held her painfully cold fingers to the heater for a moment, then turned her attention back to Marcus’s tie. She wanted to climb back into his lap, but what was she going to do with the heater? And how were they going to do anything beyond tie removal? Marcus had had a point; the Beetle was tiny. Marcus’s shoulders took up more than half of the front seats, and his head nearly scraped the ceiling. 

“Get in the back,” said Bea. No asking; but this point Marcus preferred orders. “There’ll be more space.”  
He wasn’t about to disobey, but getting a Heavy into the back seat was a tight-fitting operation that involved lot of wriggling and strange angles. Somehow, they managed, and Bea put the front passenger seat as far forward as it would go, then set the heater on the dash. At least the back gave Marcus a couple more inches of headroom and enough space for his knees. He looked at Bea with satisfaction and she climbed into his lap, straddling his torso. The position made her skirt bunch around her hips, revealing garters and the lace edge of her knickers. Most unladylike, especially for a woman with such thick thighs. Marcus seemed rather pleased with unladylike, because his hands were immediately on her, thumbs stroking the little band of pink skin over the tops of her stockings. 

“Much better than the front.” Bea turned her full attention to his tie now. It was an older tie, too narrow and dark to be fashionable, but the silk slid undone quickly. Bea shoved the tie aside and started on the button on his vest and shirt. Such tidy bone buttons. They seemed to neat for the thick and rather hairy chest behind them. Bea loved that hair – it set Marcus apart from the strongmen in circuses and in magazines. Those men were as bald as plucked chickens and altogether too lean. They do it for show, Marcus had told her, and that made it even better. That meant that Marcus, with his coarse body hair and scars and slight layer of fat, were real. The thought made Bea grab a hasty handful of fabric and try to yank the shirt over Marcus’s shoulders. 

“So eager.” Marcus’s hands had moved from her shoulders to her girdled waist, fingers settling on the stern steel boning. 

“Damn right I am.” She couldn’t deny it. A low ache had started building in her pelvis, and she barely so much as touched him! 

Still, Bea would not have been diverted from the shirt had not taken her by the jaw and pulled into a kiss. It was all tongues and a slight clacking of teeth, his stubble and sideburns rough   
against her cheeks. She could still taste the whiskey on him. 

Marcus exhaled, then pinched her lower lip between his teeth and pulled away. A bit too soon, really. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

“You’re just horrid, pet.” Bea turned back to the shirt, but he caught her hand. 

“No hurry, you know. Light a cigarette. Stay awhile.” 

Bea sighed in mock irritation. “Well, I suppose I could indulge that.” The Luckies were still in her pocket, and the light from the zippo reflected on Marcus’s face. Bea lit the cigarette and inhaled so deeply that she could feel the heat in her lungs, then pressed her mouth to Marcus’s and filled him with smoke. He made a noise of satisfaction, rather high-pitched for such a big man. Wouldn’t it be nice to hear another such noise? Bea thrust her weight forward, pressing skirt and knickers again against Marcus’s crotch. The bulge there was incredibly satisfying.   
Marcus’s hand was on her ass by now. Quite a handful, even his hands as large as his. This pushed Bea even further forward and it made the confines of her girdle thoroughly unbearable. No more waiting, the horrid thing was going to have to come off. 

So Bea sat back and pulled her jacket and blouse over her head to reveal her girdle. It was much heavier and sturdier than Helens; she was too plump for the light, elasticized ones. She had to exhale and suck in her stomach to unhook it, but once she had, it sprang free eagerly. There would be red indents left in her skin, but the light was too dim to see them. 

“Much better.” Marcus said it before Bea could. He gave the soft spot above her hips a little squeeze before moving upward. His fingers lingered on the indentations, which were a little warmer than the rest of her skin. “That thing’s been bruising you up.” Marcus hated her girdles; he said they ruined everything from Bea’s flexibility to his appreciation of the view.   
The marks from the girdle weren’t that interesting, though, so Bea took Marcus’s wrist, urging him upward. Her breasts were as much of a handful as her ass, and they hung a bit low under their own weight. Marcus stroked the soft undersides, his calloused fingers a wonderful contrast again such tender, unexposed flesh. It made Bea inhale once, sharply, a breath she hadn’t planned to take. She caught a flash of Marcus’s teeth then, ghostly in the dim light. Bea was anything but vocal in bed, but that only seemed to make Marcus delight in whatever sounds he could coax out of her. Maybe Marcus thought sounds were a testament to his skill or maybe he just wanted to reassure himself that this ferocious little merc could be undone just like any other woman. The smile prompted Bea to bit the inside of her lip. She might be eager, but Marcus still needed to work a little. 

His fingers were tracing her nipples by now, but at least their puckering could be attributed to the cold. Or that’s what would say if she asked. She’d give him no credit, and least not if her goal was to make him work. 

“That’s quite all right now.” Bea tried to make her voice distant and aloof, but she always sounded more like a poor imitation of Helen than anything else. “Kiss me.”

More of that slightly toothy smile, and a good view of the white of his dark eyes. Did anyone else know that Marcus could almost resemble a puppy? It wasn’t a terribly obvious resemblance; it must have stemmed from his eagerness to take her commands. Immediately, he hefted up her breasts and peppered them with kisses. Sweeting and fluttering kisses, just enough to stimulate. The tip of his nose was cold, his sideburns tickled. The ache in Bea’s pelvis had spread to her stomach by now. She wanted to shift her weight and grind against him again, but Marcus would not be interrupted. 

So Bea hooked two fingers under the great cleft chin, urging his gaze upward. “Good boy. So obedient. It’s pathetic, almost.” The insult prompted her to take a drag on the cigarette until the end glowed bright. Bea exhaled, the ground the cigarette against Marcus’s chest, right on the edge of his nipple. The scent of burned hair joined those of gasfire and wet wool. It made her sigh; she loved that acrid smell precisely because others hated it. 

The pain of the burn made Marcus moan in just the way she liked, deep and chesty. She pressed her nose into his chest and gave the burn the gentlest little nibble, then a kiss. His skin was not exactly soft. It was thicker than hers a maybe a bit oily after a day of sitting in a suit. He had a certain scent about him, too. Unwashed up not unclean, some combination of plain white soap and body heat. And of course, the burn was hot beneath her lips. 

Marcus yelped, and Bea practically strained her ears trying to make sense of it. There was a fine line between pleasurable and ordinary pain, and it would ruin in the mood if she really hurt him. But the sound seemed to be the former and he wasn’t tensing and pushing her away. Besides, if it got to be to too much, he’d never been shy about telling her as much. 

“Look at you,” said Bea once she’d pulled away. “Transfixed by a breast or a burn. Pathetic.” 

“Like I said. Can’t help it.” Marcus seemed utterly resolved to his pathos. 

His tone made Bea snort with affected laughter. She flicked the burn with a fingernail for good measure and turned to look at the cigarette, which was still in her hand. “Oh dear. My smoke’s gone out.” She looked up at Marcus, making a point of pouting. “What a shame. I’m not sure I have the motivation to light it again.”

This—or something similar – was usually Marcus’s cue to service her, but there was nowhere near enough space for that. Nowhere to kneel or lie down. Bea was considering logistics when Marcus took her by the ribs and picked her up bodily. He set her down a few inches away; instead of sitting in his lap, she was now on his knees, with her back pressed against the front passenger seat. His strength made the move feel like a command, but his face was open, all but searching for affirmation. When Bea made no move to protest, one of his hands wandered outward, through the mess of her bunched skirt and slip, up towards the edge of her knickers. 

They were French-style knickers, a little old-fashioned by now, but with the distinct advantage of being totally open at the crotch. His fingers brushed against her pubic hair, and internally, Bea cursed herself for not bringing anything to use as lube. She had a little tub of Vaseline in her toiletries back, but it was up in the room with Helen. Well, it was too late to do anything now, and at least she was already quite wet. 

Marcus made a few large, almost clumsy grabs at her vulva before he found her labia and parted its lips. He stroked at the tender inner folds, making a broad circular motion. Bea’s heart was pounding in her ears by now, and the muscles of her pelvic floor had started to flutter. She was still biting her lip, but it likely didn’t matter. Marcus could probably feel everything that was going on. At any rate, he circled tighter, teasing the area just around her clit. Then, suddenly, there was another finger on her, pressing against her anus. There was no way he could penetrate her anally without lubricant, but he fingered the surrounding skin. 

Just as Bea thought he was about to finger her clit, Marcus pulled his first finger away and slipped it rather forcefully inside her. It was unexpected enough that Bea gasped. Maybe she should tell Marcus that this was an awful lot awfully soon, and did he really want her to orgasm before they got to the main event? Or maybe that was exactly what he wanted, because he slipped another finger inside her and curled them against her walls, towards her rectum. It was good enough that Bea couldn’t have borne to stop him. So she leaned back and resolved herself to the fact that Marcus had a mind to make her come here and now. She never lasted as long as she would have like, and when the orgasm hit her, she let out a long, shuddering breath. The sort of thing you couldn’t hear in the next thin-walled hotel room, and that was exactly how Bea liked it. Private even when there was no one to hear. 

About then, she noticed that she’d gone all but limp, pressed again the front seat as she was. A bit sweaty, too, and her hair and somehow come unpinned, exposing the extensive face scars. At least her glass eye hadn’t fallen out; she wasn’t in the mood to crawl under the seats while looking for it. 

A low chuckle rumbled out of Marcus, and he leaned forward slightly, brushing loose hair away from her eye. “Still pathetic, am I?”

“Fuck you.” Bea said it with a smile, but had it been anyone other than Marcus, she could have been genuinely irritated. It wasn’t like her to be like this, so obviously undone with pleasure that she couldn’t even deny it. Feelings other than anger were raw and intimate things. They were far too intimate for the men and women she met on jobs and at parties and in those illegal dungeons dedicated to the American fetish. But Marcus didn’t belong to that class of people; he was something entirely different. 

Marcus stroked her hair again, and Bea noticed that his expression was almost apprehensive. She’d been lying against the front seat for too long, she decided. She was not the sort to linger; she was meant to her swagger back, drive the action forward, and drag Marcus along with it. 

“I suppose that was good enough, pet.” She didn’t sound quite like Helen this time. The disdain wasn’t believable, so she reached for her zipper and added, “More than good enough.” The cigarette smoldered, and Bea took just enough of a drag to regain her confidence. Was there anything that projected confidence so well as a cigarette in the hand? Probably not. Thus reassured, Bea exhaled and put the cigarette to Marcus’s chest again. Three quick, small burns right in a now. None of them would be deep enough to leave a scar. Still, Marcus made a sound, a sort of affected whimper. They both knew this wasn’t serious pain. 

“Why, that’s barely anything.” Bea feigned irritation. “Do I need to do more?”

As if to test this, she scooted closer and cupped one hand around his tenting crotch. Gave it a little squeeze. Marcus’s erection was large and satisfying, of course; Bea would have expected   
nothing less from such a massive man. She shifted the still-lit cigarette from to her left hand and used her right to address his belt and fly. His dick twitched a little at her touch, so she pawed at it through his boxers. The boxers were gray cotton, high-waisted, and fastened with two plain buttons. Good and functional, a hundred times better than the pastel silk things that more fashionable men wore. Why bothered with pretty fabrics when all boxers came off in the end?

With that, Bea pulled the unbuttoned boxers down towards Marcus’s hips, giving him just enough slack to free his dick. It wasn’t the longest dick she’d ever seen, but it was good and thick and always erect when she needed it to be. Every bit as functional as cotton boxers, really. 

“Not bad.” Bea tapped the head with her index finger, then drew the cigarette close as if she intended to burn him there. But even she was not that cruel, so she snuffed it out against the ride of Marcus’s pelvis. The burn would be sore and painful there, but it wouldn’t rub against any of the seams inside his clothes. It wouldn’t do for a burn to be torn open and infected.   
“Shame this car is so small.” Bea tapped the last burn. Felt its heat. “Can’t reach to kiss it better.” As if to make up for this, she pressed her lips to the four on his chest. They were beginning to bubble into blisters by now. Maybe it was satisfaction with the blistered burns that prompted Bea to push herself up and mount Marcus’s cock. 

This part came easily now, with Marcus thrusting his hips and putting one hand on Bea’s back to guide her. Him panting a bit and fresh sweat on them both. Hard thrusts, him going in as deep as she could take, which wasn’t quite up the balls, but it was close enough. Bea might’ve insisted he drag it out, ordered him to last until he gave her another orgasm, but a strange tiredness had seeped into her bones. It might have been due to the confined space and dim light, combined with the fact that the blasting heater had made the car quite warm by now. Or maybe it was just the aftermath of a long and miserably dull day. What time was it now? Eleven or so? She didn’t have a watch. 

Whatever the time, she allowed Marcus to come at his own pace. Once he was good and spent, he pulled out of her. Tucked his soft cock back into his boxers and tucked her into his arms. For a good while, they just sat like that, with Bea’s head against Marcus’s chest, both of them relaxed and quiet and still. She might’ve fallen asleep like that, had Marcus not stirred and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Thanks, love.”

“Of course.” There was no need for commands and insults now. “Whenever we can.” It was dawning on her that they’d have to get back into their wet clothes and lumber back through the snow. “Wish we had a proper bed.”

“We’ll be back at the base tomorrow.” Marcus checked his pocket watch. “Well, later today.”

That seemed to be enough to rouse them to action. After a good deal of wriggling, they were back in their clothes. Bea’s girdle seemed even more miserable now that it was damp. Running through the snow was even more awkward now that it was deeper, and the doorman seemed quite surprised to see them again. It was as if he’d forgotten they’d ever left. Regardless, he narrowed his eyes at Bea’s mussed hair and smeared rogue, drowning in Marcus’s jacket as she was. 

The doorman wouldn’t have mistaken her for a prostitute; Bea was too plain and her suit was too conservative for that. He probably thought she was an ordinary loose woman, the kind driven to extramarital fucking by nuptial boredom or spite. Or maybe he though she was a mistress, plied with pearls. Though that was what she really was, wasn’t she? Marcus’s mistress. When Bea tried to think of a better word, nothing came to mind. But how could she be the same thing as those grimly practical girls, when her relationship with Marcus was pure indulgent risk? And besides, Marcus had never gotten her anything that she couldn’t have bought for herself. 

“What’re you looking at?” Bea snarled it as venomously as she could. The doorman would probably start some talk, but how many people could he tell while he was working night shift?   
The boy in the elevator must have still be afraid of Bea’s foul language, because he started intensely at this levers and didn’t say a word. Marcus tipped him a dime. 

The tenth floor was quiet, and there was no light beneath the doors of Helen’s or Mr. Paulings’s rooms. Still, Marcus wished Bea goodnight with only a kiss on the cheek. Their proximity to authority seemed hold them back. 

“Home tomorrow,” he whispered. She nodded. 

The sound of the door opening woke Helen, or maybe it was the light from the hallway. At any rate, her mattress rustled. “Find your magazine, did you now?”

Bea peered at this shadowy figured on the bed and prayed she wouldn’t reach for the lamp. She wouldn’t have been able to stand Helen’s disdain for her rumpled appearance. 

“The Economist.” Somehow, she managed to keep her voice level. “Sat in the reading room while Mr. Pauling was typing up your notes.” She strained to remember the magazine’s headline. “Awful lot about the Japs bombing China.”

Helen’s silence seemed to suggest that she didn’t quite believe her. But even if she knew exactly what had happened, Beetle and all, what was she going to do about it now? Besides, a confrontation would just reinforce the fact that Bea and Marcus had gotten together despite her efforts to keep them apart. And Helen would never admit to something like that. Not willingly, at least. 

So Bea said no more. She just undressed in the dark, then brushed her teeth and washed her face without turning on the bathroom light. Crawled into her small and slightly cold twin bed. But before she did, she was careful to set the magazine on the bedside table. For authenticity’s sake.


End file.
